


...And the Time is Now

by orphan_account



Category: Yes (Band)
Genre: Loss of Virginity, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-02
Updated: 2013-01-02
Packaged: 2017-11-23 08:29:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/620108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris finds out why Jon has been so hesitant to become intimate. Then he wonders if he ever really has done so, himself. (1970)</p>
            </blockquote>





	...And the Time is Now

**Author's Note:**

> ok i know this is kinda...cliched maybe but it was my first time successfully finishing writing porn of these two so i had to start somewhere. writing gay 70s smut is weird

Tonight’s going to be the night, Chris thinks, smiling probably not as wide as he thinks he is down at a shirtless and panting Jon on his bed. He worked his hardest for the duration of the last two years, ever since the night they met, taking the nights they don’t play gigs and aren’t swamped with fans or family or, worst of all, ladies, to work him into just a bit more of a tizzy than the previous occasion. Jon is so shy in bed. Squeamish, even. Chris is nearly four years younger, and the sensitivity, the shuddering, with which Jon replies to every one of his touches astounds him. And inspires him. And arouses him.  
  
And makes him snicker a little. Jon hates that. But tonight Chris has managed to hold in his snickering, and Jon hasn’t brushed his hands away once, and he knows that tonight it’s going to happen. Finally. He sits up with Jon’s legs around his thighs and he hovers above him, leaning down to kiss him, and while their lips touch, he sends his hand sliding down to the fly of Jon’s jeans.  
  
“Do you mind…?” Chris asks when he pulls away.  
  
Jon shakes his head, smiling. There’s a flush on his face and his lips, thanks to Chris tugging at them between his teeth as much as he kisses them, have deepened to the color of some deep berry, and he looks like the summertime or something, and Chris cannot even think on it for too long, because look! Jon didn’t say he minded! So he pulls the zipper down, slowly so he can watch and make sure that no, Jon never loses that faint, trusting little smile even in the slightest. And it never goes away, and Chris keeps pulling, pulling until he’s finished with the zipper and he can only pull at denim, and then the trousers are off and there’s Jon underneath him in just his little pants and at the same time Chris feels rather overdressed for the occasion and awfully smug that even though there’s not much to it, there’s a tiny hard nubbin poking up that reassures him that he’s doing things right and that tonight’s the night. He could cry, but he knows the better investment of his time is to lean in again and reward Jon’s trust in him with another kiss, and not one that ends in a bite or a tongue swirling around a tongue, but a kiss that remains just that.  
  
Until, that is, Jon reaches up and wraps his arms around Chris’ shoulders, pulling him in and locking his ankles together around him. Chris keeps right on kissing him despite being fully enmeshed in this kind of Jon-knot, but without his mouth free to ask whether it’s okay if he touches him, and where, and how, he feels the smug fuel that propelled him into his situation in the first place beginning to leak from the tank a bit. He supposes he’ll let Jon lead for a while. At least until he recovers his wits enough to be more than satisfied with himself again.  
  
Jon pulls away after a biteless, tongueless, yet entirely desperate series of kisses. With a soft thump his head lands back on the pillow and he gazes up at Chris with his eyes wide and glossy, his brows drawn, a little pout forming on his lips.  
  
“Christopher,” he murmurs.  
  
For a second Chris can only assume that tonight, instead of being the night, will turn out to be yet another in a series of nights he remembers suddenly all too well—the kind of night that had the potential to be the night, but ended up an overheated disappointment in which he excused himself, finished up in the bathroom, and then apologized to Jon, who apologized in return, and then everything became one apology after another and they apologized themselves to sleep. But he still clings to the hope that rests within the folds of those pants lying on the floor. “Yeah?” he asks.  
  
“I want it,” Jon replies. “I want—I want you to make love to me tonight.” His smile comes back for a second and disappears just as quickly.  
  
But the fact that it was only a cameo doesn’t matter. Chris has begun beaming as if plugged into a wall outlet. Jon either ignores it or doesn’t notice, and either is just as likely, considering Jon is staring up at him bug-eyed and unflinching. Jon tends to notice Jon-things.  
  
Chris isn’t usually a Jon-thing.  
  
So dumbfounded and ecstatic he stammers at him, “I’ll do it, Jon, I’ll—yeah, of course, let’s—”  
  
“—Ah, huzzah!” Jon cries, throwing his arms once more around Chris’ shoulders and pulling him downward, this time for only a hug. “I am ever so happy I’ve found you, my love, I wouldn’t want anyone else in all the world to take away from me my flower, I wouldn’t! I love you ever so much, my Fish, my Christopher, my—”  
  
“—‘Take away your flower…?’” Chris asks.  
  
Jon lets his grip sag and the two of them spend a moment staring at one another. Chris has vaguely heard a phrase something similar to this in the past, but the longer he looks at Jon, the less he thinks it can mean what he’s thinking it means.  
  
No. No, it couldn’t. He almost laughs, but just in case, he stifles himself. Jon has just turned twenty-six years old. He’s been in bands since before Chris was out of school. He’s lived in Germany, for crying out bloody loud, no, it just can’t mean what he thinks it means. Chris is jumping to conclusions.  
  
No matter how much sense it makes, the more he dwells on it.  
  
Jon cocks his head to one side, a little dismayed twinkle playing in his eyes. “Yes,” he says. “Take away my flower, you know, deflower me. I’ve never done this before, surely you knew that…”  
  
Chris has to take a moment to make himself comfortable on his elbows. He breathes, and he thinks, hard. “Deflower you.”  
  
Jon nods. “Yes. I’ve never been with a man before.”  
  
His fingers drum on the mattress. They’re so long beside Jon’s little head, and Chris thinks of all the things he’d planned on doing to Jon with them, and he winces. How unbecoming, suddenly. But he thinks on the words coming from Jon’s mouth, because those are what matters. Not the long, bony digits that probably would have gone into it had this information never sailed his way like a wayward ghost schooner. “Well—well,” he stammers, scratching his forehead. “That’s—that’s just fine, though, I mean, I’ve never…Never exactly done this sort of entire thing with another bloke, myself, but—but I suppose—at thecore of it, the—the getting off part, right, that can’t be too different from when you’re with a bird, they’re good practice, don’t you think?”  
  
There goes that little cock of Jon’s head again. “I haven’t the foggiest, I’ve never been with a bird, either.”  
  
“You’re twenty-six,” Chris says, thinking he only thinks it, and then shuddering when he realizes the words have actually come barreling forth from his lips. “I mean—it’s—it’s okay! That’s—oh, wow, Jon.”  
  
“Whyever are you speaking that way, Christopher?” Jon asks, and it takes Chris a moment to realize that he actually doesn’t in the least sound cross with him, only perplexed. “I know how old I am.”  
  
Chris tries to think, but he can only rub his face. He sits back upright and looks down at Jon, his hands halfway covering his mouth while he speaks and keeps on trying to think at the same time and has a feeling he won’t do either very well.  
  
What is he supposed to say to that? He wouldn’t put it past Jon to never have the thought that, at the age of twenty-six, most young men, even those without such life experiences as him, even without the All-Desirable Woman-Absorbing Dream Career of Professional Musician, have had some kind of contact with someone in some way. Jon doesn’t do very much thinking about himself vis-à-vis other individuals. Jon lives in a flowery, sparkly, sunshiney dream land where he can sing and the birds come flying to him and the butterflies land in his hair and all is well and lovely.  
  
Lord, it explains so much. Now Chris can’t even imagine how he could have for a moment, no matter how brief, been surprised by this. Of course Jon is a virgin. Of course he is. He thinks back to the first time they kissed and Jon pulled away both trembling and smiling. He thinks back to all the times he’s slipped his hand around Jon’s body and Jon stopped him from going too far or squeezing too hard. They’ve been inching toward this for years and Chris, stupidly, taking for granted all the experience he gained in those three years between dropping out of school and meeting Jon, never thought that all that adorable reluctance could mean anything like this.  
  
Yet he still asks, “Well, how—how—far have you—I’m just curious, what…What have you done…?”  
  
Jon’s eyes loll from side to side, up and down, and he nibbles on his lower lip. Then he gives Chris’ body a look and shrugs. “I suppose this is the most of it, isn’t it? Everything we’ve done?”  
  
Chris hides his choke behind the back of his hand. “That’s,” he sputters, and then he feels Jon’s hand running softly up and down his forearm, and he looks at it and quits trying to speak, quits wanting to explode, quits thinking.  
  
Then in the midst of his absence of thought it occurs to him that there are people in the world who would kill to “take the virginity” of their partner. He’s known some. Schoolmates, mostly, who bragged about having at their girls first. And when he was younger he supposed he understood the fascination with it, a kind of need to stake some kind of claim, put a flag right there that says ‘I was here first,’ like an intrusive graffito, a good old-fashioned English colonialist tradition, right? But Chris looks at Jon and he doesn’t understand it anymore. Jon is looking up at him dumbfounded that any of this is any kind of occasion as far as Chris should be concerned whatsoever. Jon trusts him and he loves him, and that is what this is about. This is Jon’s situation. He is simply a tiny, adorable, wonderful human being who is twenty-six years old and has never had sex before. Chris isn’t taking anything away from him. He isn’t staking any sort of claim. He has nothing to worry about.  
  
Just make him feel good, he thinks. Relieved, he smiles and asks, “…Guess I should, uh, get out of these pants, then, shouldn’t I?”  
  
Jon smiles back and nods, so lightly and sweetly that when Chris tries to watch it last while he struggles out of his trousers he nearly trips out of the bed. Jon giggles, and then Chris laughs, and as soon as he’s left with only his underwear he climbs back into position and they’re both still laughing when they kiss.  
  
Of course in the middle of this a thought occurs to Chris. “Do you, ahh…Would you rather…See me first or do you want me to…?”  
  
“I can see you already, Christopher, you’re right above me,” Jon answers, clapping his hands to either side of Chris’ face. “Whee.”  
  
Chris might die. It makes him laugh, though, and then he says, “I mean my—do you want to see me naked first or do you want me to see you naked? Whose pants am I taking off first?”  
  
“Oh!” Jon gasps. “Oh. Oh, yours, then, I’ve been ever so curious for such a long time, I have! I’m such a boring sight, myself.”  
  
“You are not,” Chris reassures him, sitting up on his knees and tucking his thumbs underneath his waistband. “I’ve been curious about you, too, you know.”  
  
Whether that comment or the sight of Chris starting to slide his underpants down makes Jon sit up and clap his hands over his mouth in anticipation doesn’t matter. Chris has to suck his lips in between his teeth to get his trembling under control. When did he even start trembling? Good lord. Next thing he knows he is free of his underwear and Jon is giggling as if Father Christmas himself has shown up and brought him every gift he never received as a boy.  
  
“Wow,” he whispers. “There’s so very much an awful lot of it, isn’t there?”  
  
“Well,” Chris shrugs.  
  
“…May I touch him?”  
  
Him, Chris thinks, he’s calling it ‘him,’ he can’t possibly be actually ready to do this, I can’t be this hard when he’s calling it ‘him.’ But Jon’s already moving toward him with one tiny finger extended, ready to prod at the surface of it. “Yeah—yeah, go right ahead,” Chris finally answers, his mouth hidden behind his fingers.  
  
Jon beams. His hand moves forward, hovering around the shaft, trying to see how and where to position it. Then he rests his fingers on the top and his thumb on the underside, all lighter than the air around them. It’s not quite a clutch. It’s enough, however, after a few seconds, for him to slide his hand down to the base and then back up the entire length. He giggles to himself.  
  
“Heavens,” he sighs. Then suddenly he lets go and his head moves forward and he kisses the tip, then moves right back to sitting up straight before Chris, who has just enough time to finish letting out a shudder at clearly the only thing Jon intends to do tonight with his mouth.  
  
And that’s just fine, because if he can make him feel that way with only an airy peck, Chris definitely wants to conserve his energy for whenever Jon feels up to giving him a full performance.  
  
Lord.  
  
Jon speaks. “You know, um…” He hides his gaze behind his eyelids. “You can do with me whatever you’d like. I’d be happy to let you, ahh, do whatever you need.”  
  
He’s getting at something. Perhaps he’s too shy to say it or perhaps he genuinely doesn’t know what he wants. Chris leans in and kisses him, placing his hand on Jon’s back as he does. He pushes him back down onto the mattress. Here he receives a possible clue as to Jon’s intentions, because Jon immediately moves his legs so Chris can fit comfortably right between them. But Chris refuses to insist on anything. No sense making the little creature any more skittish than he already is. “I just want you to feel good, alright?” he tells him. “So, you know, if I…If I do anything that hurts or you don’t like, just tell me to stop, and I won’t do it anymore.”  
  
“Whyever in the world would anything you could do to me hurt?” Jon asks.  
  
This again. Chris feels his eyes widen. “You—well, I have to—you do know how this works, don’t you?”  
  
“Of course I do, I wouldn’t ask you to do it if I didn’t know how it works,” he answers. “But I’m unbreakable, I am, I’m protected fully and truly from any physical harm by the wonderous force of our love. You know that.”  
  
Unbreakable. Yeah, okay, Chris can let him believe that for as long as he likes. He kisses his cheek, supposing that somewhere in that powdery updraft of a brain of his Jon believes that Chris is offered the same protection, for whatever reason, and love has infused every cell in their bodies and all the plasma that makes up their auras to turn them into a forcefield to convert even the barest twinge of pain into a shudder of pure lust, and that Jon believes this with every part of him. He’s not even high. But still, just to be safe, Chris sits up and pushes himself off the side of the bed, telling Jon, “Let me get the lotion.”  
  
He hears Jon swoon and the fabric of the comforter below him moving about as he does something. But he doesn’t look back. Getting the lotion will only take a second, if, when he arrives at the edge of the sink where he has left it, he can get himself to move again. Instead he stands there with the three-quarters-empty bottle of lotion in his hands, staring at his reflection in the mirror.  
  
What a sight he is. A pasty shaggy-haired broom of a hairless sex chest of a naked twenty-two-year-old bass player getting ready to use the last dregs of vaguely bubblegum-scented swill contained inside a bottle that his hands dwarf to the point of concealing so he can sleep with the singer in his band, a twenty-six-year-old Northerner who has never seen the nether regions of another human being, in some kind of odd refractory groupie Mobius strip situation. This is the kind of thing he thinks about when he sees himself. Lord, he’s gawky. He remembers a time when he was young and chubby and all he knew how to do was sing in the choir and it made him feel so good, that one little thing, and he loved going to church because of it, and look at him now. There is a nearly naked male in his bed just feet away. He wonders if he’ll ever be allowed into a church again after this, or if every pastor will smell the sin on him like pet dander.  
  
When he hears Jon calling him—“Christopher, my Fish, whenever shall you return to me?”—he smiles at the clarity of his soft, high voice, and then hears the sermons about what a prize it is to be chaste and that to have a pure body means to have a pure soul, and then he turns around and sees Jon sitting on the edge of the bed, his underwear dangling from a toe before dropping to the floor, gazing over at him and beckoning him back without ever lifting a hand to give a signal. This is just Jon, he remembers, and he’s just never done this before, and there’s nothing the matter with this whatsoever because he loves him. He walks back over to him, kissing him and pushing him back down onto the bed again the moment he arrives.  
  
Chris has done far, far worse than sleeping with someone he loves, anyhow.  
  
When he drops the bottle of lotion on the bed, Chris finds he has a lot more dexterity with which to touch Jon. He maneuvers both their bodies around until Jon’s head is back on the pillow, and then takes a hold of both of Jon’s wrists, pinning them up near the headboard. He sees no reason to hold back in kissing him now. Sweet, high whimpers seem to come from somewhere in Jon’s chest whenever Chris bites down on his bottom lip and tugs on it to let one kiss or another end, or whenever Chris pushes his tongue into his mouth and it meets Jon’s with a quick glide. It amazes him, how different it feels to kiss like this without any clothes or mid-tour fatigue between them.  
  
Chris lets go of Jon’s wrists only to reach over and grab the lotion bottle again. Without looking at it he can open it rather easily. But he has to take a break from kissing him to distribute some onto his fingers and get each one covered. He moves back down, this time aiming his lips just behind Jon’s ear, the rest of his face buried in thick, dark hair. After nibbling for a bit on Jon’s earlobe and earning a quiet moan for his efforts, he whispers, “I just want to touch you, is that alright?”  
  
Jon nods. “Mmhmm.”  
  
So with his hand leading the way, Chris moves down. He leaves a line of kisses down the length of Jon’s neck, down over his collar bone, down to his chest, and at the moment he realizes he hasn’t even taken the time to truly look at it yet, he wraps two fingers around Jon’s shaft.  
  
With a light nip at Jon’s skin, he begins stroking, and reaffirms to himself that yeah, there really isn’t much there, but what else could he expect? He smiles at it when he turns his head to take as much of a look at it as he can. Jon whines a bit, tossing his head back and bending his leg in response to a touch that, now that Chris thinks about it, really wouldn’t do much for himself, personally. But Jon hasn’t felt anything like this before, anything at all, and—well—maybe if size is taken into consideration, the feeling has more of an impact on Jon than it would for Chris. Who is he to try to determine logistics at a time like this? He keeps stroking, and Jon uses one hand to grab at the pillow under his head and the other to weave itself in between the locks of Chris’ hair and anchor his head in place while he grows about as hard as Chris thinks he possibly can. Chris entertains him. There’s not much he can do while fastened to Jon’s remarkably soft chest, but he uses his lips and his tongue and his teeth to leave a little trail of purple and pink speckled love bites from one side to the other.  
  
What if he sucked his initials into Jon’s chest? No, he won’t. But knowing he could gives him cause enough to grin before letting his slippery fingers fall away from Jon’s erection and merely hover in the vicinity. Jon can take the moment to catch his breath.  
  
“Hey,” Chris says. “How are you doing?”  
  
“Fine,” Jon gasps. He wipes the side of his face as if trying to rid himself of his blush, or at least the heat that it betrays. Smiling anyway, he lets his hand ease on its hold on the back of Chris’ head. “Oh, I’m so happy, Christopher, so very happy I could just burst, I could!”  
  
“Well, don’t burst yet,” Chris mutters, the words emerging far less teasing than he had planned. But he can pretty well admit to himself that he’s not much good at anything, and being seductive, he supposes, is just one more thing for him to be mediocre at best at. He kisses Jon right in the center of his chest. “I wanted to see, uh, if you’d maybe be ready for me to…Go in.”  
  
Jon hesitates. “Just a moment. Sit up.”  
  
Before Chris completely lets the words filter through his head, Jon begins sitting up, and Chris then has no choice but to move with him. But when they’re both sitting up, facing each other, neither of them move. Only Jon sits in place, his chin resting atop his knees, letting his eyes move from one point on Chris’ body to another.  
  
“You’re just lovely,” he muses. Chris has a sense that he is smiling more in his eyes than on his lips, and it makes him look down at his own skin, as if he doesn’t deserve to look at him. Or maybe that he truly does deserve to look at him, to look at whatever he wants to look at, and he just needs a moment to accept it, like admiring a prize he’s been given. “All over. I’m glad I get to see you like this, oh, what a joy, just look at you!”  
  
Look at you, Chris wants to say, but he has to bite his tongue in order to give Jon his chance.  
  
“And no one but me gets to see you,” Jon adds. “Not Steve, not Bill, not Tony. Just me. Oh, how wonderful!”  
  
Chris almost wonders for a second who exactly is having sex for the first time here. “It’s pretty nice, isn’t it?”  
  
Jon sighs while he nods. “I love you, Christopher.”  
  
“I love you, too, Jon,” he replies.  
  
When they kiss again Chris finds himself ruminating on Jon’s demand to just look at him. How someone like this could have come into existence escapes him, and the fact that this person is in love with him, in such an undiluted manner, no less, is a riddle for physicists. That quantum thing again, he thinks. Then he feels Jon open his legs around him and begin to scoot back down onto the mattress.  
  
“You can go in now, if you want,” Jon says.  
  
But Chris replies, “Uh—you know what, on second thought, why don’t you give me a moment, if you don’t mind.”  
  
Because Chris hasn’t taken the time to actually study Jon’s body yet. Over Jon’s enthusiastic “Whatever you need!” he sits back and admires the little figure before and underneath him. And Jon looks just as soft as Chris has always thought he feels, soft and compact all over, a tiny pillow of a man. Jon doesn’t even try to hide his chest, and even through his clothes he doesn’t like putting it on display because of all the chuckling taunts aimed at the more womanly shape of it. Chris couldn’t even give him the best-natured of teases now. Everything about Jon is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen. He almost doesn’t even want to touch him and ruin it, but he sees the love bites he’s given him and he even finds those rather beautiful, if only because the quantity of them means Jon enjoyed receiving them, and they remind him that he’s almost there and tonight is the night.  
  
It hits him again. It’s tonight. He feels Jon wriggle all over once at the same time he lets out a whimper that turns into a smile. Jon giggles, Chris chuckles, Chris reaches for the bottle of lotion and restores some to the surface of his fingers.  
  
“I relax now, right?” Jon asks.  
  
“Mmhmm,” Chris answers.  
  
“Then you should, too. Come now.”  
  
Chris decides, then, not to think for a while. If Jon has to tell him to relax, he has to shut down, because Jon has always had the best ideas and even he knows it. So when he next comes to he is lying down on top of him, in the middle of kissing him, with his fingers circling his entrance, and the vague awareness hits him that he must have been shaken back into consciousness by a combination of Jon shivering at the feel of it and Chris knowing he has to go in now.  
  
He hears Jon let out a preemptive moan. He has no idea how it is going to feel, Chris thinks, and he wants it so badly. Now is as good a time as any for Chris not to shut off his brain completely, but just crank it down. Crank it down so he doesn’t think about what he is doing. Just tell his joints to do what they need to do and his tell his ears to listen for every sound that comes from Jon’s throat.  
  
He slips one finger inside.  
  
Jon gasps, but makes no other noise. He doesn’t even seize up or move or anything at all. He remains serene while Chris moves his finger in and out, bends it and stretches it, and a part of him thinks that in some way no news is good news, that no struggle means everything is fine, and that maybe Jon is still figuring out how he thinks it feels. But if he’s making Jon feel good, then he wants to know. So he asks, “How are you feeling?”  
  
With a happy whine, Jon replies, “Magical…!”  
  
Chris has to force himself not to stop. But his disbelief, thankfully, spends only a moment in his head before he shakes it off, laughs, tells Jon, “Good,” and slides a second finger inside. This time Jon reacts by tipping his head back and smiling so brightly that his eyes close and Chris reaches up to kiss his cheek.  
  
“Ahh, it’s—you’re just doing ever so lovely a job, there’s—there’s a bit of a sting, there is, but honestly, rather I feel—” Jon bites his lip and squirms. “—Ahh, there it is!”  
  
“There what is?” Chris asks.  
  
But he never receives an answer, because Jon seizes up for a moment only to let out another enthused “ahh,” and as long as Jon is enjoying himself, Chris sees no harm in going further.  
  
“One more?” he asks.  
  
“One more what?” Jon’s voice lilts with tremors, and after another gasp, he seems to come to a realization. “Oh! Oh, yes, surely, one more, please, be my guest.”  
  
So this way Chris works in a third and final finger, and Jon’s gasps begin to take over his moans. How he’s tolerating it Chris doesn’t know. He supposes it has something to do with the way Jon has of looking always for the positive, of focusing on the good in things rather than the bad, the way he exerts no effort at all in feeling lovely and wonderful rather than sorrowful or doubtful. No wonder he can writhe in pleasure his first time. Everything about Jon adds up suddenly.  
  
Chris muses on it and his fingers still and then Chris realizes that he’s musing on the unbreakable sunshine that composes Jon while he’s trying to open him up enough to fit of all things his wank inside of him and he feels it’s time to crank the thinking down again. Lord.  
  
Whether it’s just sex like Chris thinks he’s sure it is or it’s a Full-body Spiritual Journey For the Two of Them Entwined the way Jon is sure to think it is, Chris gives him one last stroke before pulling his fingers out and reaching once again for the lotion. “Nooo,” Jon begs in the interim during which Chris applies the lotion to the last bit of himself.  
  
“‘No’ what?” Chris asks, tossing the bottle aside.  
  
“Come baaack.” He has his arms thrown over his eyes as if there’s some kind of light just above him that hurts him and makes him smile all at once and perhaps, Chris thinks, that’s not too inaccurate.  
  
“I am, I’m coming,” he tells him while he makes sure everything lines up. “See?”  
  
“Oh, goodness,” Jon pants. His voice trails into a whisper. “Oh, goodness and heavens of all the starshine and moonlight above, oh cattails and zephyrs.”  
  
The things he chooses to say, Chris thinks. If he even chooses to say them. Jon lets words come from his mouth at every chance and when he’s worked up Chris can’t even tell whether he’s upset or frustrated or overjoyed and when he thinks all of them are adorable what is he supposed to do? Smile, for one thing. Smile and ask Jon, “What do the cattails mean, love?”  
  
“Please go in, I am to die a death, I am,” Jon answers.  
  
Chris feels fairly certain he will die a death as well, if Jon keeps this up through the rest of the night. “Don’t die yet, okay?” he says, leaning down to kiss Jon on the forehead. “I’m going in now.”  
  
He backs away. In the midst of the motion Chris gets one last look at Jon’s body underneath him, his legs on either side of him, the flush on his face, his hands moving away from his face so one can clutch the pillow and the other can reach for Chris’ arm.  
  
“I love you,” Jon says, right as Chris reaches to steady himself. “I love you, I love you, thank you, I love you.”  
  
“I love you, too,” Chris replies. “I love you too, I love you too, you’re welcome, I love you too. Are you ready?”  
  
Jon pats Chris on the arm where he holds him in time with his nods. “Yes. Yes.”  
  
“Alright. Alright.”  
  
For the first time in the night Chris wholeheartedly focuses his attention on himself; at least, that is, a part of himself. He gives a final inspection that yes, he is aligned properly, and yes, his tip is nudged up right where it should be, and yes, his grip on himself is firm and steady. He takes a deep breath. Then with a thought to himself that this is for Jon, and he loves Jon, and at the same time it is for the both of them together, he pushes inside.  
  
Jon’s reaction is something that Chris can collectively call a gasp: he squeaks when he takes a sharp breath of air, but he cuts himself off and lays there with his mouth open and his eyes wide. Slowly, though, as Chris continues pushing, Jon’s eyes close and his mouth does, too, and the next noise he makes comes as a delicate “ah” when Chris’s skin hits Jon’s and he can’t push in any farther.  
  
“Are you okay, Jon?” Chris asks, shaking his bangs out of his eyes to get as good a look at Jon’s face as he can.  
  
“That’s awfully…” His hand has been tightening around Chris’ wrist for the duration of this, and now his fingernails scrape against his skin. “Goodness, there’s a lot of you. Goodness me, ahhh…”  
  
“Y-yeah,” Chris replies. “I can stop if you want, if it’s—if it’s hurting you or anything…” He backs his hips away, a motion he’s going to have to make regardless of Jon’s answer.  
  
But Jon tells him, “No, no, it’s fine, I’m fine, where are you going,” and Chris pushes back in. The polite thing to do.  
  
He has to actively think, now, in order to make himself thrust in and out, but thankfully his natural pace is slow. The good thing is he no longer feels in danger of hurting Jon or doing anything to make him tell him to stop. It’s happening. But that’s exactly the bad thing: it’s happening, they’re doing it, making love, having sex, joining together, however whichever one of them wants to call it, and Chris realizes this and suddenly he feels so good all over that he’s not sure even he can go slowly. He is inside Jon. He is feeling him exactly like he has wanted to ever since that day just a few weeks after his twentieth birthday when they met. And it’s tight and it’s burning hot and Jon is starting to move and moan and whimper again just like before, more and more with each motion of Chris’ body. He doesn’t think he can do it until he realizes he’s already doing it and he’s been doing it and even realizing he’s doing it can’t make him stop.  
  
He’s moaning, too, now, on top of that. Almost silently, he can barely hear himself and it’s something perhaps more akin to panting, but he can feel the vibrations of it in his throat. He can feel a lot of vibrations. When was the last time he’d slept with anybody? Surely it doesn’t matter, because nothing in his experience has felt like this. But he’s never been in love, he doesn’t think. And he’s never done this much with another man. What a thing to make him remember that this is the first time he’s done this with a man, feeling everything, feeling Jon grabbing at him and squeezing where he can, feeling Jon locking his ankles around one another to pull Chris in toward him further, feeling Jon everywhere.  
  
Maybe they’re both virgins.  
  
“Christopher,” Jon murmurs. After Chris only offers an acknowledging sigh in return, he only says his name again.  
  
It makes Chris want to hold him. So he moves down, holds himself up by an elbow, and reaches his other arm around Jon’s body, trying to find a curve on which his hand can rest. He stills at the small of his back, but he decides why not and lets his wrist rotate just so. This way he can give Jon’s bum a squeeze, as if it’s not already got plenty happening to it. Jon cries out at the feel of it—a good thing, considering Chris can’t see himself abandoning this spot now. He lays atop Jon, holding him with one hand on his bum and the other on his arm, and Jon holds him with his legs around his thighs and both his arms around his shoulders, raking his short nails in tiny intermittent streaks across his back. If the sweat and friction don’t glue their skin together, their grips on each other will prove more than adequate a substitute.  
  
Jon gets a bit louder. Then louder still, and even more louder, not saying anything, but Chris holds a suspicion that a word is stuck somewhere. But there’s a possibility that Chris is the one caught on his own words, because when he goes to ask “what” or “are you alright” nothing comes out. Just a stammer and a “hahh” and half of a grunt.  
  
“Christopher!” Jon finally manages. Then afterward a sound bursts forth from him, a scream he wasn’t expecting, a wail in his alto that he didn’t expect to hear, and he shudders all over, every part of him that is latched onto Chris seizing up and tightening further, and good lord, Chris thinks, my little trooper. He’s so proud of him that it doesn’t take him long before he comes, too, and then he collapses. They both collapse, really, everything limp and noodly and spent and they could both stand to fall asleep. But after Chris pulls out, the two of them spend a decent while panting and gasping against each other, not moving otherwise. Recovering.  
  
Jon’s not a virgin anymore. And Chris decides that now, really, he isn’t, either.  
  
In spite of his exhaustion, Chris sits up, and Jon, with what appears to be his last bit of strength, hangs onto him as he moves. “Wherever are you going?” he asks.  
  
He helps Jon to sit up, which unfortunately makes him wince, but he seems to recover fairly quickly. Unbreakable. “We’re going to take a bath,” Chris answers.  
  
Both their eyes fall on Jon’s stomach, much in need of a washing, and after a silent plea made only with his eyes, Jon persuades Chris to pick him up and carry him like his bride into the bathroom. Chris draws a bath and they get into the water together, nearly falling asleep at the feel of the temperature on their skin. But there’s soap and there’s shampoo and all of it needs using, they know. This is a bath of sighs.  
  
They don’t even get out after finishing a lazy, haphazard washing. Instead they lay in place, Jon’s head on Chris’ chest. “This feels lovely, Christopher, I really can see how you fall asleep in here so often.”  
  
Chris shrugs. “We could do that right now.”  
  
Jon hums, tracing a little swirling pattern into the surface of the water with his fingertip. When Chris opens his eyes to look down at him, his eyes are open, and he just watches the water ripple and calm without ever saying anything.  
  
Then finally Jon adds, “Did you feel nice?”  
  
“Did I feel—of course I felt nice, good lord, Jon, it was unbelievable!” he answers. “I’m really amazed, honestly. You are unbreakable.”  
  
Jon laughs. “Oh, good, then! I was ever so nervous I’d buggered it up somehow, seeing as I’ve never done anything of the sort before, you know how it all goes.”  
  
Chris gives him a kiss on the top of his head, right at the center of his dark wet waves. “You didn’t bugger up a thing. You sound exactly like you do in the studio, you know, and you’ve got nothing to fear there, either.”  
  
“I suppose not,” Jon sighs. He shifts, settling into something apparently more comfortable, and lets his eyes close. “I suppose both of us are a nervous sort, ah? Aren’t we a silly pair?”  
  
“The silliest,” Chris replies. He remembers earlier in the night when Jon told him to relax, just like so many other times when he’s told him to relax, and when, in fact, Chris has told Jon to relax. And it’s so nice to relax without either of them telling the other to do so. It always happens when they aren’t thinking about it, as if relaxing is an instinct embattled in a struggle of mutual repression with some more highly evolved thought process.  
  
But right now, he thinks, they’ve got it pretty well under control.


End file.
